


Mercutio.... das Musical

by orphan_account



Category: Elisabeth (Színház), Elisabeth - Levay/Kunze, Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, M/M, Musical References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4798232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why, Tybalt? Why did you kill Mercutio Escalus?”</p>
<p>The same question, over and over again, from the Voice without a source. It never seemed to cease. “I didn’t mean to kill Mercutio!” As he spoke, his eyes slid shut; his hands clenched into fists at his side, and his next words were said with some hesitation. “All I can say is… I was influenced.”</p>
<p>“Influenced by whom?”</p>
<p>“Death,” Tybalt replied. “And he did it… because he loved him. All of us die- and yet we still speak of Mercutio.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crossover of my two favorite musicals- Elisabeth and Romeo et Juliette/Romeo es Julia! This was inspired by a prompt on Tumblr from the wonderful sosearchingromeo, and I just... ran with it, I guess? Anyway, this is heavily based of the Hungarian productions of both musicals, though it could be read in my main R&J verse as well. I've never written anything for Elisabeth before, even though I love it so much.
> 
> This story will follow the basic plot of both musicals, incorporating both Romeo and Juliet's romance and Tybalt's... existential angst. Mercutio takes Elisabeth's place, Tybalt is a cross between Lucheni and Franz Josef, while Death is... umm, Death.
> 
> The English lyrics, however, aren't mine! They're from the wonderful elisabeth-in-english.tumblr.com, which has some of the best translations I've seen, and for the purposes of the story lyrics might slip in every now and then. All credit for the English translations go to them!

The world was old and faded, rotted, decaying; a fog seemed to be all that remained to him, the only thing left in this decrepit universe that has existed since the beginning of time and will do so until the end. Tybalt wasn’t sure how long he’d been down here, in this place nearly equateable to hell; left with nothing but the fog, the ashes, and the Voices. 

“Why, Tybalt? Why did you kill Mercutio Escalus?”

The same question, over and over again, from the Voice without a source. It never seemed to cease. The gentle yet harsh caresses of shadows hurled him to the floor once more, and all Tybalt could do was throw his arms up to shield his face.

“I didn’t mean to kill him!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking on the last word. He had said this so many times before that the words even feel stale inside his mouth; meaningless. He’d almost quit believing them himself. “I’ve told you! I didn’t mean to!”

“Lies! The motive, Tybalt!”

“I didn’t mean to do it!” he hissed again, glaring up in defiance towards the endless blackness above him.

“Mercutio is dead.” The Voice dictated this solemnly, without emotion. “You’re to blame. Tell us why you did it.”

Shakily, Tybalt pulled himself to his feet again; his bones cracked, and his body felt weak, but he still raised himself to his full impressive height. A shadow of sarcasm flickered through his voice as he glared. “Why should I? It’s all you’ve been asking me, over and over, for however long I’ve been down here! What’s the point?” His hands drifted towards the deep wound in his abdomen as he bared his teeth at the unseen interrogators. “I’m _dead.”_

“Answer us!” demanded the Voices, seemingly provoked by his insolence. Tybalt’s shoulders slumped once more.

“I’ve already told you,” he replied, sounding both drained and angry all at once. “I didn’t mean to kill Mercutio!” As he spoke, his eyes slid shut; his hands clenched into fists at his side, and his next words were said with some hesitation. “All I can say is… I was influenced.”

“Influenced by whom?”

“By whom? There’s the question.” His glare returned, along with an almost manic smile. For the first time, it seemed as if he was finally getting somewhere with the hounding interrogators; they wanted to know the story. If it would end his hell, then by god, he would give it to them. “Who do you think? _Death.”_ He pronounced the word with an almost intimidating surety; he had no illusions as to the weight it possessed down here. “Death himself.”

There was a short silence from the Voice. And then: “Death himself made you kill Mercutio?”

“Yes,” Tybalt replied, throwing out his arms and baring his teeth in a wide grimace. “And he did it… because he loved him.”

“You’re speaking nonsense.”

“Perhaps,” conceded the condemned man. “But I have witnesses.”

“And what would those be?”

“His… contemporaries, if you will.” As he spoke, he began to step to the side; he could feel the spirits of the dead rising behind him, those who were lucky enough not to be condemned to Tybalt’s own personal hell. They had come to tell his story. “All of us die- and yet we still speak of _Mercutio.”_

_The former world has sunk below_  
The lustre fades, the body rots  
The land that only spirits know  
There we dance the reaper’s waltz…  


The voices of the dead slowly began to rise; a cacophony of sound, almost inhuman in their emptiness. They slowly began to fill the silence around Tybalt with noise, the likes of which he had not heard for what felt like an eternity trapped here. The sound was brilliant, and he couldn’t keep the smile- a smile which held no joy- off his face as he began to call forth each soul in turn.

“The Prince.”

_Want, need - madness in our veins._

The spirit of Prince Escalus emerged from the mass, his face long and eyes hollow; once royal, he now wore decaying rags of clothing, and his royal bearing had long since vanished under the strain of the afterlife. He struggled to hold his body upright; yet the crown, all it’s lustre faded, still rested upon his head.

“Valentine- the brother.”

_Wish, creed - duty breaks our backs._

Valentine was still lean, his face youthful yet shadowed, as he stepped out to stand next to his uncle. He slumped to one side, arm stretched forward in front of him as if reaching for something he could not grasp; his face was twisted in despair.

“Romeo and Juliet.”

_Dream, wake - drives the world insane._

The two lovers clung together, holding each other upright; Tybalt’s stomach twisted at the sight of his once-beloved cousin, her long sleeves still drenched with blood. But the two of them, as opposed to all the rest, had an air of placidity about them; as if they were content in their fates.

“Benvolio.”

_Real, fake - shining through the cracks._

The spirit of Benvolio was the last to step forward, his arms hanging; he slumped forward as if he could not sustain his own weight, and his clothes hung off of his body like chains pulling him to the ground. He staggered in place as he took his place, his mouth moving soundlessly.

All the spirits seemed as decayed, as shrouded in mist and emptiness as the rest of this world; Tybalt wondered if that was only due to their presence here, or if they were all trapped in their own little version of hell from which they could not escape. He didn’t dwell on it; there was no time.

Escalus was the first to speak, his voice weighted and heavy by the pressing of the afterlife. “We all wanted the best for him!”

“We can’t be judged!” added Benvolio, twisting his body to the side as if trying not to look ahead of him at whatever lay beyond.

“He was difficult to live with!” Romeo’s voice rose up, and Juliet added a beat later, “He was made of stubbornness!”

Valentine’s cry rose up over the din, his arm stretching forward- he was reaching now, one could see, for his lost brother. “Mercutio! Where are you now?” But even his almost-pathetic cry was growing indistinguishable as each ghost began to cry out at once, all desperate to plead their case while they had the chance.

“He was impossible!”

“It wasn’t our fault!”

“We warned him he would get hurt!”

“I would have died for him!”

“Come back to us!”

Then, suddenly, the ghosts were all struck in place, as if hit by a bolt of lightning. Tybalt himself recoiled at what felt like a jolt, but he seemed to recover quicker than the spirits- quick enough to begin egging them on. “No one was prouder than him!” he exclaimed, biting the words out with venom that the ghosts seemed to respond to and recoil from, continuing their halting dance. “He laughed at you all! He _hated_ you all!”

_We are doomed to die  
All shadows in time’s abyss_

“No one understood his mind!” Tybalt was screaming now, furious. A familiar fury- one that, deep inside, he knew he should be terrified of. “He wanted more than he could have! He embraced darkness and madness like a friend!”

_He lusted for what we all cursed  
He loved what we all feared the worst_

The dead were howling now, jerking and writhing and screaming; and unidentifiable mass once more, everyone crying out and reaching for things they could no longer grasp. Tybalt himself was separate from them; had his heart still beat, it would have been pounding. They were all crying a single name; Mercutio. No one had ever danced with Death the way Mercutio had.

And then, suddenly… it all stopped.

The dead crumpled to the floor; Tybalt alone was left standing, and with a sudden chill down his back he knew just who was here. He had been expecting him.

“His majesty,” he announced, not quite looking towards where his hands instinctively gestured. “Death.”

Tybalt could not resist the urge to look; his gaze was pulled, almost magnetically, to the figure slowly stepping out of the shadows. Through no control of his own he fell to his knees, and the entity’s gaze was drawn towards him; it lingered, a moment, two sets of black eyes meeting, before Death continued on his way.

Death himself was a hypnotic figure; magnificent, in long dark robes, high-cheekboned and fine-featured. His hair was long, dark locks hanging long and straight past his shoulders; his skin had a blue sheen and almost seemed to shimmer. Yet his physical appearance was nothing compared to the air with which he carried about him; with a single look, one knew without a doubt whom he was and what he wanted.

As Death descended slowly from the shadows, he stepped carelessly over the crumpled figures; he had no need of them. He had taken them already. His attention was focused solely off into the distant blackness, as if he could see something there that others could not.

“What is the meaning of this- all this talk of a time long ago?” he demanded, his voice both soft and unforgiving at once. Tybalt’s body felt cold as ice; he closed his eyes, tightly, but Death’s words still penetrated his head. “This song of love and death- the words themselves do not go together.”

He took several steps forward, his hand clenching around the white dress he held in his arms. He stared at it, caressed it lightly- as if it were something precious to him. “I exist purely to destroy; I take all who are mine, young or old. I don’t know how it happened... but it’s true.” He closed his eyes, hugging the dress to his chest. “I loved him.”

Suddenly, the dress had vanished and Death was moving towards Tybalt again; seizing him by the arm, the teenager was helpless to struggle as a long knife was pressed into his hand. he knew this knife, and his first instinct- one he was helpless to act on- was to fling it away. This was the knife he had used to kill Mercutio.

“You’re not making sense, Tybalt!” the Voice exclaimed once again, but Tybalt didn’t fall to the ground this time; he stood, brandishing the dagger high, his eyes fixed on it as if it were something incomprehensible. “Love, death- you’re telling fairytales!”

“Maybe I am!” he replied, not tearing his eyes away from the instrument of murder he held. “He loved to talk of fairies, of the impossible.”

“For the last time, Tybalt- who made you murder Mercutio?”

“Death!” he screamed back towards the sky. “Only Death!”

“The motive, Tybalt!”

“True love,” he hissed, and the words seemed to burn his tongue; the made him want to scream, and scream he did. “Great, true love!”

The voices of the dead were rising again, all of them screaming, howling, shrieking- a single word.

_Mercutio._

They pieced Tybalt’s skull, tearing him apart from the inside out. _Mercutio, Mercutio,_ he was all there ever was and all that remained. Killing Mercutio had killed him as well; now they were both dead. No one could ever have understood him; no one could ever see the person he really was, no one could ever get close enough to him to help him. Even Tybalt did not have that privilege, in spite of the fact that he… had loved him.

_Mercutio._

He had loved Mercutio, and so had Death. Everyone had loved Mercutio; but no one had really known him.

_Mercutio._

Tybalt would tell Mercutio’s story, as well as his own; and then, maybe, people would understand.

_Mercutio! Mercutio! Mercutio!_


	2. No Coming Without Going

The scene rose slowly; from the emptiness of the afterworld into the warm, welcoming light of a study. At a desk in the center of a room sat a man with dark, greying hair, hunched intently over a stack of papers. Behind him, a large portrait stood proud against the maroon walls; a picture of the same man, wearing a crown and coronation gear. There could be little question that this was Prince Escalus.

The sound of a door opening jolted the Prince from his focus, and he looked up just as another figure raced into the room.

“Uncle! Have you heard the news?”

Prince Escalus took in the sight of his eldest nephew’s excitement calmly, with a hint of amusement. “I’d assume I have,” he replied as he placed his pen down, “considering I am the ruler of Verona. Nothing goes on in this city without me knowing about it.”

Mercutio- for this was his nephew’s name, and fitting it was- let out a light laugh. “I can contest to that,” he replied, a smirk on his face; casually, he leaned forward and placed his palms on the front of his uncle’s desk and narrowly avoiding knocking over a picture frame displaying two blond little boys clinging to each other.

The Prince quickly held up a hand. “As long as it isn’t illegal, I’d rather not know.” His attention had already returned to his papers when he seemed to remember his nephew’s unorthodox entrance. “What is this news you’re so worked up about?”

Mercutio shrugged, lounging forward dramatically- and effectively blocking his uncle’s view of his work. “I wouldn’t use the term worked up,” he drawled. “More like shocked; horrified; aghast that some poor, unfortunate, unsuspecting young girl will have to spend her life married to that sorry-”

“Yes, I know, your cousin Paris is getting engaged.”

Mercutio sprung backwards, throwing up his hands. “It’s ridiculous- engaged! Paris!” he exclaimed, as if he could barely believe his own words. “Uncle, really?”

“Mercutio, your cousin is a perfectly eligible bachelor-”

“With as much charm as a plastic spoon.”

“-and will make a good and happy husband for someone,” persisted the Prince, wholly unimpressed by his nephew’s dramatics. “Besides, he hasn’t even picked out a suitable young woman. That could take weeks, and then we don’t even know if her father will say yes.”

“He will,” Mercutio replied matter-of-factly, snatching a little elephant figurine from his uncle’s desk and studying it as if he had never seen it before in his life. “Who would turn down an alliance with the prince? But Uncle, Paris has just gotten back from his tour of Europe. Is it really a good idea to-”

“It is, because I say it is, and I’m sure the happy Lord who receives Paris’s offer will agree.” Escalus reached out, promptly plucking the figurine from his nephew’s fingers and placing it back in it’s spot. Mercutio pouted, but his uncle could tell he was hardly serious. “For the love of god, don’t say anything to anyone about it. Tonight will be Paris’s ‘Welcome Home’ ball, so be civil with your cousin. He’ll begin searching tomorrow.” 

Mercutio let out a sigh, crossing his arms but nodding his head all the same. His uncle didn’t seem convinced. “And Mercutio?” The teen perked up at the address. “Be there tonight, and behave.”

Anyone else might have been offended; but Mercutio knew his own antics just as well as his uncle. Holding up his hands, he made a show of nodding earnestly. “Alright, alright, I’ll be good.”

Escalus raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll be there! I will!” Mercutio flung his arms out at his sides, spinning in a circle. “I’ll make a grand entrance!”

“You always do, don’t you?”

“Yes, but this one will be really great, I’ve been planning-” Suddenly, the blond perked up. “Want to see?”

“I’m a bit busy now,” replied Escalus, though inwardly he was just the slightest bit curious about whatever his mischievous nephew was planning. “And the party is in just over an hour. You really should _begin getting ready…_ ”

The hint was pointed, and Mercutio didn’t miss it. “Fine,” he replied with another grin, giving the prince a slight mocking bow. “Uncle, I bid you adieu.”

“Adieu, nephew,” Escalus echoed, rolling his eyes again. “And Mercutio?” The boy stopped in the doorway, glancing expectantly over his shoulder. His uncle shook his head. “Don’t do anything that could get you hurt!”

Mercutio’s only reply was a mock-salute, and then he was gone.

Tybalt tore his eyes away from the scene as it began to fade away, only to be replaced with another. He had been so busy watching Mercutio that he’d hardly been paying attention to anything else. “The Royal Ballroom of the Prince’s Mansion. The largest estate in Verona; Mercutio lived here for most of his life. It’s… nice. I suppose.” Honestly he thought the Capulet ballroom was far grander, but he doubted it was his place to judge. “Mercutio’s cousin- _Paris-_ ” (he quite failed in keeping the disdain out of his voice) “-has just returned from studying in Europe, and is now being welcomed home both by members of the royal family and Verona aristocracy. Everyone is _oh so excited_ to see him- though I can’t imagine why.”

All around the crowded ballroom, people in fine costume milled about; ladies in flowing dresses and men in heavy jackets, all talking and gossiping with each other- much in the fashion of hens. In the center of the room stood a proud-looking young man with dark hair, chatting with a group of people- most notably among them the Prince- and smiling. Almost everyone looked enthralled with what the youth was animately saying; the only person to give any outward sign of boredom was a slender blond boy next to the Prince, who was clearly trying (and failing) to stifle a yawn.

In less than a minute, Prince Escalus had taken his nephew Paris by the arm, and was loudly calling the rest of the room to attention. The gossip and chatter died down as all eyes quickly turned to the prince, who smiled at the crowd in turn.

“Greetings, everyone!” Escalus exclaimed warmly. “I thank you all for gathering here tonight- at this ball in honor of my nephew, Count Paris, who has just returned from studying in Europe!”

The round of applause this statement was met with obviously seemed to please Paris; he gave a proud wave, seemingly delighted with his own self. He knew that he was popular here in Verona, public opinion of the Prince’s handsome older nephew being very positive; in the crowd, it was impossible to ignore the whispers from some of the ladies, _“so handsome!”_ or the giggles that followed.

“I’d also,” the Prince went on, “like to make a very important announcement regarding my nephew. Paris has decided that, as he is growing older and preparing to take up his own reins in the government, it is high time he takes a bride!”

This news clearly seemed to delight the crowd; more than one person approached the happy uncle and nephew with handshakes and congratulations. Girls and even older women were eager to flutter their eyelids at Paris, who was clearly basking in all the attention he was receiving.

“My only regret,” he announced, raising his voice slightly to make himself heard over the crowd, “is that I did not spend more time in Verona during my youth! Such a lovely, peaceful city, with good and just people, leaves me unable to imagine any place more suitable to take up residence, and I do believe that once I have found the hand of the girl I wish to marry we will frequently return to visit Verona on holi-”

Whereas Paris seemed quite ready to go on forever, a sudden shout from across the room drew many people’s attention away from him. “Look!” the cry rang out, and most people spun around in eagerness to see just what was so fantastic that it had to be exclaimed so loudly about.

The blond boy from earlier- who many recognized as Valentine, the Prince’s younger nephew- was pointing outside the great ballroom windows. His face was pale with shock and alarm. “Look at that! Do you see him?”

See him the crowd did- it was _Mercutio_ , in all his glory, slowly and carefully ascending the high window. He seemed to have a harness strapped around his waist and used the panes for support, lifting himself up inch by inch at a time; already he had managed to get more than twenty feet in the air, but his goal was very clearly the slightly open part of the window near the ceiling of the room.

People gasped, shouted, recoiled in horror; Prince Escalus himself pushed through the crowd, rushing forward towards the great glass window. “Mercutio!” His voice echoed throughout the great ballroom. “Come down at once!”

“He’ll fall!” someone shouted. A woman buried her face in her hands; but for the most part, people could only watch in horrified anticipation.

“Oh god! Oh god!”

“The boy’s insane!”

“He could break his neck!”

Escalus’ patience was rapidly decreasing as his fear for his nephew increased. “Mercutio!” he tried again, and this time his voice left little room for argument. “Get down here before you get yourself ki-”

His words were cut off. A missed grip, an unsteady foothold, a snapped cord from above; there was a collective scream from the crowd at large, but the falling boy himself made no sound aside from his hard impact with the ground.

Tybalt closed his eyes, and the scene seemed to blow away like wisps of smoke on the wind; all that remained was Mercutio, lying there surrounded by darkness. He seemed to glow golden in the empty space around him, a final burning ember amidst ashes; his crumpled form, however, gave no sign of life. Tybalt’s gut twisted, remembering a scene all to similar, only that time it had been his knife which had caused the wound in Mercutio’s chest. Now, as the boy lay on the ground with his glow slowly dimming as the life slowly faded out of him, Tybalt’s only comfort was that he knew how this story would end; and this was only the beginning.

Death appeared slowly out of the shadows, a spectre of mist stepping from the darkness; his face was impassive as he stood over Mercutio, gradually sinking down to crouch next to the teen. A tentative hand, incapable of giving comfort, reached out and brushed the hair from his face; sharply, Death withdrew, eyes widening ever so minutely. It seemed the great being was struggling to understand something he could not put to words; leaning back on his heels, his eyes drifted between the hand and the fallen boy for a moment before he breathed a single word: _“Mercutio.”_

It was impossible. It didn’t make sense. Things like this didn’t happen. He was Death, his job was to destroy, to take lives as quickly and easily as brushing away flies. He could never grow attached to a human- he could never love one.

But what was it about him- this glowing, golden boy who seemed to illuminate all around him? Why did Death suddenly find himself unable- for the first time in his existence- to snuff out the light that gleamed so brightly, that enticed him like a moth to a flame?

Slowly, Mercutio was awakening; sitting up, eyes forcing themselves open, only to be met with a simply breathtaking sight above him. He blinked in surprise for a moment, struggling to understand what he was seeing- his mouth slowly formed around a different name, one that just nearly matched the face in front of him but at the same time _didn’t_. And then, in a moment so sudden, so definite that it could be seen on his face, he _knew_ who this was.

Almost like a frightened animal, Death reached out a hand and pressed his palm to Mercutio’s; the warmth of the boy’s body was like nothing he’d ever felt before, and a chill ran down his spine. They stayed still for a moment, hands between them, their eyes searching one another’s; both imagined that the other seemed to read everything about them at once.

Abruptly, then, Death seemed to regather himself; all at once he had broken the hold that kept Mercutio’s gaze locked on his, had risen to his feet and was gliding away. He had almost vanished into the shadows once more when he heard Mercutio’s voice call out behind him, and he knew he was reaching out to him.

“Wait!”

Never had anyone, in the history of existence, called upon Death the way Mercutio had. People called him to take their own lives all the time- but never so innocent, never purely out of the desire for him not to leave them. For a moment, Death was paralyzed.

“Where are you going?” Mercutio asked, his voice tentative. “Will I see you again?”

Death closed his eyes; a moment later, without turning around, he replied, “You will see me again. Sooner than you think.”

And as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, leaving Mercutio alone. The boy lingered in the darkness for a long moment, staring after him, before the smoke clouded over his figure as well and he vanished along with the rest of the scene.

Tybalt turned away, trying to fight off a rising bitterness. Had that one moment not come to be, he couldn’t help but think, things might have been so different.


	3. Nothing is Heavy

A crowded courtyard; loud yelling; a cart aflame. The air hang thick and heavy, oppressive heat just right for stirring blood; it was little surprise to find people scattered, running this way and that, tackling each other and shouting obscenities. It was complete chaos, unhindered violence in the streets, and these youths were delighting in it. Everywhere you looked, it seemed as if another individual brawl was taking place; the occasional cries of _“Montague!”_ and _“Capulet!”_ rose over the din, but other than that very few people spoke.

In the center of the courtyard, a burning flame arose; the torch was brandished high above the head of a man perched on top of the statue. As soon as Tybalt’s eyes landed on him, his breath froze in his chest; it may have been a long time ago, and it certainly had, but he had not forgotten the way he had looked in the middle of a fight. Mercutio- as glowing, passionate, and alive as ever, even more so with the battle gleaming in his eyes.

Mercutio watched the battle around him with unmeasured intensity; he wore a heavy jacket even on this hot day, and the red t-shirt underneath seemed to set off the flames and almost make him glow from his effortlessly graceful perch atop that statue. His face- normally one of constant amusement- was now hard, and his eyes shone with the fire of the fight around him.

Looking at him now, Tybalt could remember exactly why he’d cared so deeply for him- and why Death had come to feel the same way.

“Enough!”

The sudden shout from the prince was enough to shock everyone into silence; even Tybalt, who had been so focused in watching Mercutio, was taken aback. Mercutio easily dropped down from the statue, and didn’t miss the way his uncle’s eyes pointedly met his as they roved through the crowd.

“People! Citizens! Has not this bloodshed carried on for too long?” the Prince asked; he received no reply from his loyal subjects, to the surprise of no one. He had been expecting little else; the last thing the people of Verona would do was admit that their feud was wrong. Prince Escalus sighed, sending firm glares at a few who looked like they were about to start rioting again.

“Montagues,” he announced, turning his head to glance at the Montague side; the crowd fell into respectful bows. “And Capulets,” he continued, receiving the same acknowledgement from the Capulets. “It is over. From this day on, your pointless feud comes to an end. I’m out of patience- no more pardons. No more will you disturb Verona’s streets!”

His gaze fell upon one figure in particular. “Tybalt!” he called out, and the scion of the Capulet household unhesitatingly strode forward. From where he was watching the scene before him with a wary eye, Tybalt gazed upon his past self as if he were staring at a photograph- and a strange, yet familiar photograph it was. He hadn’t remembered looking so young; he felt centuries older, now, than the teenager standing in front of him, sulking at the ground.

“Benvolio,” the Prince continued, and out of the Montague horde stepped the young Montague, who eyed Tybalt with a small smirk. “And you, Mercutio,” the prince finished with a sigh, and his nephew jumped out of the crowd with a flourish, falling into a little mock bow for the benefit of his audience. The Prince resisted the urge to roll his eyes; it was no easy feat. “You will learn to accept and respect one another.”

The snickers from the audience, as well as the mocking reception his words were greeted with even from his own nephew, only aroused the Prince’s ire further. He was as accustomed to the feud as anyone else; normally he was lenient with his citizens. It was with great deliberation that he had been forced to come to this decision, and though it was not an easy one, it was necessary. “I have decided that whoever disturbs the peace again shall be put to death!”

The shock of his words ran through the crowd, causing a ripple effect over the people; some stared back in undisguised shock, others opened their mouths to protest but quickly closed them again. There was no point in going up against the Prince once his word was set.

Tybalt himself seemed to hardly react to the words; yet the tenseness in his shoulders showed that he took the Prince’s threat seriously. Mercutio was less impressed; as the heir to his uncle, he knew he could hardly be put to death, nor would Escalus ever do anything to harm one of his own nephews.

“Now go,” the Prince ordered sternly. “And fight no more!”

The crowd dispersed quickly after the announcement, no one wanting to test the Prince’s goodwill, nor his determination to uphold his sentence. The only one daring- or foolhardy- enough to follow after him was his own nephew, Mercutio trotting at his heels like a particularly irritating dog.

“A fine speech, uncle! You had the crowd at your fingertips!”

“Mercutio.” Escalus was not in the mood; Mercutio, as he often was (whenever he needed to be), was suddenly oblivious to any and all subtlety.

“You had them eating from your hand! They honestly believed that you mean to put them to death-”

“I do.”

The two words stopped Mercutio in his tracks. His uncle’s entourage continued on without him for a moment, before he quickly hastened to catch up. “Uncle, _really?_ ” he exclaimed in disbelief. “You can’t be- so what, would you put _me_ to death? Your own favorite nephew?”

“Mercutio…” Escalus let out a sigh, clearly uncomfortable along this vein of conversation. The thought of either of his nephews meeting their deaths didn’t appeal to him in the slightest- especially after the events of just over a week ago. “ _Valentine_ is my favorite nephew. _He_ doesn’t go scaling buildings and almost getting himself killed.”

“Yes, of course, Valentine is so much more sensible than I.” Mercutio rolled his eyes at the words. “But uncle-”

“Mercutio.” Escalus turned on his nephew, his voice firm. “Enough, for god’s sake. As much as you enjoy your brawls, they’ll have to come to an end- otherwise punishment will be meted out accordingly, and I am serious on this matter. There can be no more fighting in Verona’s streets.”

Mercutio was silent after that, walking besides his uncle with his brow furrowed in consternation. It was a short time before they drew up to the palace, and Mercutio was still mute; the silence from his talkative nephew, Escalus decided, was more than unnatural- it was unsettling.

“We have an invitation,” he said suddenly, drawing the paper out of his coat pocket. “The three of us. For Capulet’s ball tonight.”

“What a thrill,” Mercutio retorted sulkily.

Esclus rolled his eyes, handing his nephew the paper. “I am unable to attend. Valentine, of course, isn’t one for parties. If you can go there and _keep the peace-_ ”

“As I am apt to do.”

“Mercutio.” Escalus closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them again, taking in the sudden distrust on the face of the young man who was like a son to him. It felt like a stab to the gut; he grit his teeth, wanting to protest, but realizing that nothing he said would do him any good. Instead he let out a sigh.

“If you can forgive me- which I hope you can- or even if you can’t, I extend this invitation to you.” He hesitated before attempting to speak again. “This decision was not an easy o-”

“Good day, Uncle,” Mercutio interrupted coldly, and Escalus was silent as, paper in hand, Mercutio turned on his heel and strode away.

The scene faded away, and Tybalt was left standing there with crossed arms, fighting the urge to scoff to himself. “The Prince, as you can see, had never been a master at upholding the harsher punishments of our city. The time for change was upon them; and yet, clearly, his nephews had become complacent.” He rolled his eyes to himself; Mercutio didn’t understand what his uncle had slowly been growing to, that ruthlessness was necessary in order to rule. Being loved was well and good; but people only respected a ruler whom they feared.

“Whatever,” he muttered, gesturing with an impassioned flourish to the next scene slowly forming behind him. “At the Capulet ball that night, numerous schemes were in play. Paris had settled upon taking Lord Capulet’s only daughter, young Juliet, as a- a-” He cleared his throat, having to force the words out through gritted teeth. “A _bride._ Juliet is not enthused.” Neither was he, but Tybalt elected not to mention that. “Meanwhile, Mercutio and his friends Romeo and Benvolio have concocted a plan to help Romeo out of his post-woman slump by… _sneaking_ the two Montagues in… to the Capulet ballroom….” Knowing every detail of the story, as he did now, Tybalt had to admit that the temptation to violently murder the trespassers had not decreased; if anything, it seemed to have _increased_. “Let’s get on with the story!” he announced quickly, before his urge got the better of him- he doubted trying to stab memories would be very approved of by Death.

The first part of the picture that became visible was Juliet- Tybalt's breath hitched in his throat as his eyes fixed on her, spinning through the ballroom with practiced ease in her red dress. She had been so happy with that dress, he remembered- it was her first ball dress, and her nurse had sewn it herself. A carefree smile adjourned her face, and her eyes were bright as she spun and twisted with her partner clad in blue.

Tybalt recognized him as well; knowing the whole story now, it wasn't difficult to pinpoint Romeo, and his teeth involuntarily bared. The scoundrel had a hand on Juliet's waist, and was leading her so easily in the dance.

On the other side of the room, however, Tybalt was occupied with more important things; brooding over that clown Paris, for one. He purposefully abstained from dancing, standing sullenly behind his aunt and uncle as he watched the rest of the party's proceedings. When a figure slid up next to him, his eyes turned on them suspiciously. He was surprised to have attracted any attention whatsoever; normally people didn't bother to speak with him at parties.

However, as soon as the character opened his mouth he had no doubt who it was. "You're as sullen as the grave," Mercutio remarked, his voice light with humor. "Don't tell me- somebody stole your catnip?"

"Mercutio, the only thing that would make me feel better tonight would be throwing you out of this party myself." Tybalt half-involuntarily pressed a hand to his temple; he had a headache, and the Prince's nephew wasn't helping. 

Mercutio flashed a smug smile. "Can't," he replied. "I'm invited!"

"I can't imagine by whom- whoever would deign to invite a dog like you anywhere must have very little regard for home and property."

Mercutio scoffed, moving to throw a hand around his shoulders. As expected, Tybalt brushed it off; Mercutio's eyes danced. "Tybalt? Has anyone ever told you that you have the face of a grim reaper?"

"And here I'd been thinking my secret was safe. At least I don’t have the personality of a fool." He didn't have time for this; Tybalt made a move to leave, in search of another corner to sulk his discontent away in. "Goodbye, Mercutio."

As he turned away, he could see Mercutio pouting; but he ignored it, just as he was good at ignoring all things about the boy he really didn’t enjoy thinking about. As he made his way down to the floor, trying his best (in spite of his lanky frame) to slide under the radar of the numerous guests, a sudden thought occurred to him of sweeping in and stealing Juliet away from her partner for himself. She wouldn’t be upset with him, he thought; she’d told him numerous times that she would be happy to dance with no one but him at parties. That she enjoyed his company was something Tybalt found hard to comprehend; but he certainly enjoyed hers.

He eyes the happy couple and considered it a moment before turning his head; as much pleasure as it would give him, he wouldn’t spoil Juliet’s night of fun. He was really starting not to feel good anyway; his head was pounding and there was a strange taste in his mouth, one which should have registered as ominous but didn’t at the time. Unconsciously, Tybalt drifted over to where an array of food was laid out, but he didn’t touch any of the offerings; he stood by and observed the dancers, trying his best to banish away the taste and the odd feeling in his stomach.

He was ashamed to say that he jumped when a voice spoke up behind him- inches away from his ear. “You really don’t look all that well.”

Tybalt side-eyed Mercutio, giving him one of his fiercest glares. “Where do you _come_ from?”

“Hell, according to most people.” Mercutio gave him a wide grin. “Poor Tybalt… are you sad because no one wants to dance with you?”

“No,” Tybalt replied flatly.

“Come with me then.” Mercutio’s eyes danced with amusement, giving Tybalt the distinct feeling that he was mocking him. “I’ll dance with you.”

“No.”

“Ohh, come on! You won’t step on my toes!”

“Not today. Not ever.” At that moment, Tybalt’s eyes fixed on something across the room- the Count Paris (Juliet’s supposed betrothed) had somehow managed to part her from her dance partner and was taking her by the hand. Juliet wasn’t protesting, but she was obviously less than thrilled with her new dance-mate; Tybalt grit his teeth. Not on _his_ watch.

He made a beeline for the couple, swooping in like a bird of prey and easily parting the two. He pushed Paris away with a growl. “Can’t you take a hint?”

Paris didn’t look as amused as the last time Tybalt had confronted him; now he just looked angry. He pushed forward, and for a moment Tybalt wondered if the smaller man was about to try to hit him (deep down, he hoped he would just for the pleasure of destroying his smug face). But Paris evidently wasn’t as stupid as he appeared, for he didn’t try anything except to glower. “There’s nothing you can do,” he replied with a glare. “The wedding has been arranged.”

Not if Tybalt had anything to say about it. He eyed the other man warily for a moment before abruptly turning his back on him. He needed to speak to Juliet, now. But when he turned towards her he found that she wasn’t looking at him at all; her eyes were fixed on something- someone- at the other side of the room, and without a word she rushed off, leaving Tybalt alone.

He turned away, only to find Paris standing exactly where he’d been before- only this time smirking, as if knowing a great secret that Tybalt did not. Anger seizing him, he swung his arm at Paris, who instinctively jumped back with wide eyes; but at the last moment Tybalt restrained himself. He didn’t know what his uncle would do if he started a fight at his party, and he didn’t want to find out.

The music was picking up, and the guests quickly beginning to filter into the next room; a fireworks show had been planned, Tybalt recalled. Even though he hardly felt up to the sound of loud explosions at the moment, he needed to get out of this atmosphere; he pushed himself after the rest of the group, only just aware that Paris was following behind him. He couldn't care less about that brainless aristocrat. He could do what he wanted, as long as he didn’t come anywhere near Juliet.

As the crowd assembled from earlier, most people crowded towards the large windows to get a good view of the fireworks as they burst through the sky. Tybalt was barely paying attention to them; in fact, his head was hurting so much now that he was seriously debating retiring for the night. The only thing stopping him was the thought of leaving Juliet alone with Paris, for who-knows-what to happen. He could never do that to his cousin; Juliet didn’t deserve such attentions from an older man, when after all she was still so young herself. Tybalt knew that at this moment she had to be pushing to the front of the crowd at the windows, pressing her hands to the glass eagerly as she awaited the fireworks that she always loved so much…

Tybalt’s eyes scanned the crowd before narrowing suspiciously. He could not see a red dress, anywhere. Where _was_ Juliet?

He was distracted by the feeling of a sudden hand on his arm. The moment he felt it, he knew who it was; no one else would be bold, or perhaps stupid, enough. But when he turned towards Mercutio the other boy didn’t speak; instead, his face was adorned with a conspiring smile, and his eyes danced with light as he began to lead Tybalt towards the doors. The Capulet had no idea why he didn’t protest; perhaps it was the way Mercutio didn’t say a word, for once in his life, or maybe Paris had exhausted him to the point that arguing with anyone else would just make his head explode.

He realized where Mercutio was leading them in less than a minute; he knew this house like the back of his hand, and had a virtual map of the hallways in his head. It was only when the two of them emerged out onto the deserted balcony- which, incidentally, had a perfect view of the fireworks- did he wonder how Mercutio knew where it was so well.

“I used to spend as much time here as you, when we were young,” Mercutio said, as if in answer to his silent question. “Remember?”

Tybalt did; he tried not to think back on those memories often. “I do,” he replied, somewhat stiffly. “Why… did you bring me out here?”

The blond shrugged, turning to lean forward on the railing; the first flare had just shot up, and Mercutio’s eyes followed it until it exploded in the sky.

“Why?” Tybalt persisted, trying to ignore the way Mercutio seemed bathed in blue light from the fireworks- normally he hated blue, but on Mercutio now it suddenly didn’t look half-bad.

“You looked like you needed to get out of there.” Mercutio smirked, still not looking at him. Tybalt felt a sudden surge of annoyance; not only at his presumptuousness, but at the fact that now he was barely even paying attention to him. He took a step forward, scowling.

_“Look at me!”_

Mercutio did, and Tybalt froze.

Another firework made it’s way up into the sky, and it exploded with a burst of color; as it did, Mercutio pushed himself forwards, and suddenly his lips were locked on Tybalt’s.

Every instinct of Tybalt’s reacted at once; part of him tried to stumble backwards while the other wanted desperately to push forwards, but all that wound up happening was that his arms wrapped around Mercutio’s shoulders to pull him in closer. The young royal’s hands were tangled up in Tybalt’s hair; Tybalt closed his eyes, allowing an incomprehensible sense of bliss to wash over him that he didn’t want to try to understand. Instead he braced himself against the balcony railing and held Mercutio tighter, feeling the way he grinned against his lips; and just for a second, that grin was the best thing in the world.

The two of them were so caught up in each other that they didn’t even hear the mad laughter that sounded distantly, coming from worlds away. Only Mercutio caught a hint of it, drifting through the air; but he pushed it out of his mind. It didn’t matter right now; nothing else did.


	4. The Last Dance

The change in atmosphere was so gradual that no one noticed it at first; the comfortingly warm heat of a summer’s evening suddenly turned cold as ice, chilling skin to the bone. The light of the fireworks and the sounds of explosions in the background began to fade away; even against his lips, Tybalt gradually became stiffer, unresponsive (though Mercutio was hardly alarmed at this- it _was_ Tybalt).

But in Tybalt’s arms, all thoughts of Death and shadows had been promptly dispelled from Mercutio’s youthful mind. He was in ecstasies; he’d thought about kissing Tybalt before, sure, usually no more than a passing thought during or directly after one of their arguments. But never before had the mood been right, had the opportunity been there, and never before had he suddenly been seized with the courage to act upon it.

He had never considered that Tybalt would kiss back. Yes, somehow, he did.

But even in his state of bliss, it was impossible not to notice the cold that permeated everything it touched. As goosebumps crept up his arms, causing his hair to stand on end, he pulled back with a frown. It had been warm less than a minute ago, he was sure of it. “It’s freez-” he started to say, but the words died in his throat when his eyes came to rest on Tybalt.

The Capulet was frozen in place, eyes still closed; his arms hung limply at his sides, his back was stiff, and he was utterly unresponsive.

For the first time, Mercutio became aware of just how much the atmosphere had changed; slowly, his eyes began to grow wide. “Ty- Tybalt?” he tried again, somewhat hopelessly, unconsciously drifting closer to his old friend- there was something forceful in his chest that screamed that he ought to be afraid, even if he couldn’t understand why.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again they were no longer alone.

Death wore an aloof expression, leaning casually against the balcony, but there was something dangerous behind his cool gaze- angry, almost predatory. Mercutio’s first instinct was to break into a wide grin; he was glad to see his friend, who looked utterly unchanged from the first and last time he’d seen him; Mercutio would confess to himself that he’d even missed Death a bit. But as he started forward, Death held up a hand, and any words Mercutio might have been about to say froze in his throat as he drew to a halt.

Reaching out with one half-translucent hand, Death cupped Mercutio’s chin in his hand. “So,” he remarked, his voice soft. “You are in love with someone else.”

Mercutio’s first instinct was to protest, but he couldn’t get the words out; he couldn’t speak at all. Death seemed to know exactly what was in his mind anyway, for he gave him a wry, sad smile. “What a cliche.”

In one swift movement Death had yanked Mercutio forward, pulling him into his arms and leaving little room for the boy to protest- as if he possessed the willpower, anyway, locked as he was in Death’s intense stare.

“It’s- funny, isn’t it?” Holding him close, Death ran his fingers slowly down the side of Mercutio’s jaw, and the boy fought not to shiver at the touch. “You may say you love him- but then why am _I_ here?”

Shadows surrounded them on all sides, reaching out, touching them; Mercutio felt their hands running along his back, snatching at his heels, and on pure instinct he twisted away from them. When he moved, Death moved too, spinning him about the balcony in a drawn out reel that left Mercutio breathless. He seemed to find it funny when Mercutio’s eyes widened, and his slender hand ran through the human’s hair.

“You can have your fun with him all you like; it’s all the same for me. I’ll always be there, always watching you from the darkness. And I _know_ that I will win.”

In one final spin, Death finally drew to a halt; Mercutio’s back was pressed against the balcony railing, and ever so slowly as Death moved forward he leaned back, until there was practically nothing stopping him from toppling head over heels over the side and possibly breaking his neck.

“Because,” Death breathed, right next to his ear. “The last dance that you take… will be _mine._ ”

For a single second it seemed as if all the shadows were screaming in his ears at once; the sound was deafening, enough to make his head explode or blood to run out of his ears. Mercutio was almost positive that Death was going to kill him right then and there- there was nothing to stop him.

But with a jolt, he pitched forward again. The heat of the night hang heavy on his skin; he fell to his knees, trembling. Death was gone.

He only remembered Tybalt’s presence when suddenly hands were on his shoulders, yanking him to his feet again. The Capulet was staring at him in shock, his dark eyes wide and uncomprehending. “You- you-” he stammered, half-breathless; he seemed to be searching for words he didn’t have, an explanation he couldn’t find. _“Why?”_ he finally demanded, and perhaps through no fault of his own the words came out as half a snarl.

Mercutio didn’t mind this; he was used to Tybalt’s quirks by now. What bothered him was the striking similarity- made all the more obvious to him now- that Tybalt seemed to share with Death. Unconsciously, he shrunk back; this must have been the last thing Tybalt had been expecting, for his face almost seemed to soften.

In the background, another firework burst in the sky. “Why did you do that?” Tybalt asked again.

Mercutio managed a grin, shrugging his shoulders casually. “Maybe I just wanted to. Did it really bother you so much?”

“I…” Tybalt still seemed to be in a semi-state of shock. “No, it… I… I don’t understand.” His dark brow furrowed, and a clenched hand slowly drifted up to rest on his chest. “What does this _mean_? What did you _do?”_

Mercutio really didn’t feel like talking Tybalt through his first gay crisis. “I kissed you, Tybalt. If you want to punch me, go ahead and do it.” As an afterthought, it dawned on him that inviting this might be a very bad idea, because Tybalt would actually do it, happily. “Only I will hit you back.”

Tybalt still seemed baffled; his fingers pressed against his temple, his teeth bared in consternation, and Mercutio could only observe in bafflement as abruptly the Capulet stumbled back. “I- you need to... “ Tybalt swallowed thickly before levelling a glare on Mercutio. “Go,” he ordered, and the prince’s nephew didn’t need to be told twice. He was only too happy to escape from that balcony, where he’d both felt absolute bliss and had been threatened twice within ten minutes by two people who looked far too much alike for comfort.

Left alone, Tybalt worked desperately to get his thoughts in order. His mind felt like a jackhammer was going off inside of it; try as he might, he couldn’t make sense of what had just happened. Had Mercutio actually kissed him? Had he actually kissed back? And had he actually liked it?

He’d be lying if he said he’d never felt the urge to kiss that swine before- okay, he had, numerous times, especially when Mercutio was at his most infuriating. But _dear god,_ that moment had actually been _romantic._ And as far as he knew, there wasn’t a romantic bone in either of their bodies.

Moreover, what did this mean for him? Could Tybalt really threaten Mercutio’s life on a daily basis now that they had actually kissed each other? Somehow he felt doubtful, especially that he could ever really carry through with any threats. What he had just felt before, those emotions that he couldn’t explain but made him feel so undeniably happy, were going to stick with him. Tybalt could never escape the knowledge that on this night he had kissed Mercutio Escalus. The memory was going to linger in his brain for a long time to come… and there was even a part of him that didn’t want him to forget it.

He was going crazy. That was the only explanation.

He strode off the balcony purposefully, refreshed in his knowledge that all this could be was a temporary mental break, and as soon as he got back to daily life all confusion would be sure to cease and he would be left with nothing but what had always existed for him- his swords, his fights, and his Juliet. Mercutio wouldn’t even factor into the equation; not as if he ever had.

The firework show had to be over by now, Tybalt thought as he made his way back to the main ballroom. Surely everyone would have gotten back here, and the dancing had commenced again in his absence. The silence in the room didn’t occur to him until he had already strode through the doors, and found the room quite deserted- that is, aside from two people, clothed in red and blue and currently lip-locked in the middle of the empty dance floor.

Yes, this was really not Tybalt’s night, he realized as his first words devolved into an incoherent scream.

People were already filing back into the ballroom, cheering loudly and gaily, as Tybalt moved forward to confront the scoundrel who dared lay his hands on precious Juliet. As soon as the boy saw him coming, his mask was back over his face and he was scrambling out of the way. Tybalt was only too happy to give chase.

“What was that?” he shouted, pursuing the fiend as far as the stairs. “What was _that?”_

“Nothing!” the boy cried out in alarm as he ducked up the stairs like a frightened rabbit. Tybalt would have pursued-and probably pounded his face into bits- had the alarmed voice of his aunt not stopped him 

“Tybalt, don’t make a scene!”

“I just want to know who he is!” shot back Tybalt, his eyes darting to where the boy had been seconds before- but his momentary distraction had cost him. The scoundrel had vanished into the crowd again, many of the party members already watching the debacle with interest. Tybalt let out another growl at the realisation that he’d lost sight of his target. Stupid- he shouldn’t have allowed himself to get distracted. _“Who are you?”_

An all-too-familiar voice suddenly spoke up over Tybalt’s yelling. “This is a masquerade, remember?”

Tybalt would have recognized the voice anywhere, even if his hair and the mask he’d been wearing earlier didn’t give him away. “This _was_ a masquerade,” Tybalt retorted, shoving Mercutio out of his way roughly. “It’s over for you.”

“Enough!” As he descended the stairs, his uncle stepped forward and was the first person to get in his face. “Can you not see that people are trying to enjoy themselves here? Don’t spoil it!”

“But- he kissed her,” Tybalt protested, though in the face of his uncle’s anger his own indignation was beginning to falter. He knew what came of angering the man, and it was never anything good. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation with Lord Capulet, on top of everything else. “He _kissed_ her!”

“You were seeing things,” Lord Capulet retorted firmly. “They must have just been talking.”

Like hell if they were just talking; Tybalt Capulet didn’t see things that weren’t there. He trusted his senses, and he knew exactly what he had seen- that boy, that thief, that scoundrel, that _bastard_ , kissing sweet innocent Juliet. _His_ Juliet. _No one_ kissed his Juliet.

“They weren’t talking!”

Lord Capulet rounded on him, his face dark with a warning Tybalt didn’t miss. “They were!” he shot back. “And that is where this ends. Or _else.”_ Then, he turned back to the assembled crowd; and as quickly as his demeanor had turned dark, it lightened again with a false sort of merriment that made Tybalt’s stomach churn. It was a gift all the adults in the Capulet family seemed to have; the ability to switch their moods from hot to cold in a single second. Tybalt was glad neither he nor Juliet seemed to have inherited it. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Lord Capulet announced, “the dance continues!”

The music started up again, but needless to say Tybalt was far from being in a dancing mood. His head was spinning slightly; the shadows in the room all seemed longer, more oppressive, and he could only think of locating the fiend who had dared to lay his lips on Juliet’s. While most of the dancers seemed only too happy to go about their business once more, Tybalt glared darkly down at them from behind his uncle and aunt, his eyes scanning the crowd for a hint of blue. On the other side of the platform, under the watchful eye of her nurse, Tybalt at least knew that Juliet was safe.

The fire-wielders came back in; momentarily, Tybalt allowed himself to be distracted. Empty as it may be, but he had always enjoyed a good show, especially when there was a chance of one of the performers dying horribly. It got his blood pumping, adrenaline racing through his veins almost as much as when there was a fight. As a child, he’d sometimes wanted to be a fire-wielder.

He was distracted enough that he didn’t even realize Juliet had taken advantage of the distraction to slip back into the crowd until he heard her nurse’s loud voice. Immediately, he turned; the first thing his eyes landed on was the blue shirt of the fiend who he had been searching for.

He didn’t waste time letting him get away again; in a brisk movement he crept up along his side, like a lion going in for the kill. Before the boy could even cringe away he had snatched the mask off of his face.

He knew that face. He knew it far too well.

“It’s a Montague!” he howled, practically incoherent with fury. “Romeo!”

To Tybalt, the next few seconds were a blur. He clearly remembered lunging for Romeo, who in a desperate attempt at self-preservation ducked out of his way. Tybalt had just managed to grab hold of the boy’s collar when suddenly there was another body in front of him, between them, pushing Tybalt back and roughly shoving Romeo out of the way. The person’s coat was familiar enough even if his face hadn’t been, and Tybalt roughly seized the shoulders of Mercutio to shove him out of the way. The royal wouldn’t budge.

The ensuing scuffle that followed was a dance they had almost perfected over the years. It was good to know, Tybalt remembered thinking, that at least nothing seemed to have changed between them; Mercutio still had a terrible fighting style, as always better with his words than his fists. He supposed Mercutio must have consoled himself with the knowledge that he landed some particularly well-placed blows as well before all three Montagues headed out the door.

It was one of these particular hits that opened his eyes; a jab to the stomach, right where the wind was knocked out of him, and Tybalt doubled over briefly with a gasp. He recovered quickly, catching his breath in record time the way he’d long been training himself; but when he looked back up again the room was cold. Mercutio was staring at him with a smirk, yet there were shadows clouding everyone else surrounding them's faces to the point that they were almost invisible. Tybalt blinked, baffled; and in the back of his mind he desperately tried to deny the fact that there was someone standing behind Mercutio, someone tall and slim with a face like cut marble, who was _staring_ at him.

What was this? He’d had hallucinations before a seizure before but never anything like this; this felt real, far too real, and too terrifying. His eyes locked on Mercutio, desperate; but there was an empty look on his face now, and the blond still refused to move. it was as if he were frozen in time; frozen in time, but still seeing in between the cracks of another world to witness what was unfolding in front of him.

Death ( _he was Death, Tybalt knew that_ ) stepped forward, and Tybalt was without the power to cringe back as he reached out towards him. His hand slowly drifted towards his chest and Tybalt watched in mute horror as it positioned itself- right over his heart.

And Death clenched his hand into a fist.

The pain was terrible, like nothing he had ever felt before, in no seizure and from no wound; Tybalt let out a roar of agony, stumbling back as suddenly everything was moving around him once more.

Mercutio, wide eyed, stared at him for a second before leaping away as if he were contagious, stumbling backwards out the door before turning on his heel, flying without looking back. As he ran, Tybalt realized, the pain was gradually starting to decrease; only to be replaced by something else, something so venomous and bitter that Tybalt could feel it stagnating in his chest. It was _rage;_ rage like he had never felt before. Rage towards Romeo; rage towards the Montagues; rage towards Mercutio.

His body let out a shudder, giving out on him all at once; he collapsed to the floor, seizing uncontrollably, and was only dimly aware through the haze of pain and rage of people around him. It still hurt, and the anger felt like it was burning inside of his chest, right over the spot where Death had touched him; in desperation, Tybalt reached out for an arm to latch onto, but that was pulled away as well.

In his state, he was capable of very few coherent thoughts; he focused all his intensity on the ones he had.

Romeo had dared to touch Juliet; he had laid his rough hands, his filthy lips, on sweet Juliet who couldn’t have known better. And because of that, he had to pay.

Tybalt would make him pay. He would make him pay for ever daring to step foot into the Capulet mansion, for ever venturing to look at Capulet’s young daughter. Romeo would learn the price that comes of challenging Tybalt.

Mercutio would pay too. He would pay for what he did tonight. He’d pay for what he’d done to Tybalt. He’d pay for what he’d brought here.

They were all going to pay, and it was a curse Tybalt was going to see through. 

This was his last thought, accompanied by a loud guttural roar, that followed him into blackness


End file.
